


second chances and what they entail

by nightdotlight



Series: Jedi June 2020 [1]
Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Legends: Republic (Comics), Star Wars: Jedi: Fallen Order (Video Game)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Implied/Referenced Torture, Not major though, Post-Order 66, but like, i guess, it’s been over a year and I still have no idea how to tag, kind of?, not by much
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-06
Updated: 2020-06-06
Packaged: 2021-03-04 04:33:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,558
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24577612
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nightdotlight/pseuds/nightdotlight
Summary: “I am the Second Sister,” she sneers at him on Batuu, and snarls at him on Chalacta, and howls at him here, on Rodia.But Dark Woman, for all her failings, believed in second chances.
Relationships: Jon Antilles & Trilla Suduri
Series: Jedi June 2020 [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1776460
Comments: 4
Kudos: 32





	second chances and what they entail

**Author's Note:**

> day one: compassion
> 
> tw: mentions of implied suicide ideation, past torture, and past (implied) child death.

She looks up at him, her Inquisitor’s uniform soaked through, hair matted with blood and mire, eyes burning and bordered by deep bruise-purple where they bore into his. The look in them is disquieting, somehow, in the back of his mind. Sith have yellow eyes, and this girl isn’t there yet; her eyes are still some shade of green, dark and angry and hateful, but—

It’s not the hate of the Sith, not what drove Sidious to destroy the Jedi Order. That’s something different entirely, a force all-consuming and ravenous and delighting in its own darkness.

Frost from her lightsaber bites at Jon’s skin, the wailing of bleeding kyber a reminder of who she is, who she’s been for the past two years—

_ “I am the Second Sister,” she sneers at him on Batuu, and snarls at him on Chalacta, and howls at him here, on Rodia, rain lashing down around them, and all the while Jon knows this: _

She has convinced herself that this is what she wants. She wears all the trappings of a hunter, a feared Hand of the Empire’s might, sent to exterminate Jon as she has no doubt many others of the Jedi that survived the Purge.

Her hate is there, sharp and angry, but it is not the hate of a predator. She hates him, and she hates herself, and she hates the Empire and her masters, and when he touches the Force around her she’s a torrent of  _vengeancegriefpain_ —  and it’s maybe not despite, but because of that, that Jon cannot bring himself to hate her in return.

Because under the overcast, dark grey sky her shadowed eyes track the glow of his lightsaber, still in his hand, and she’s on her knees in the mud and the water. And she looks like she expects him, like she  _ wants him _ to end it.

Like she died when she became the Second Sister, and in the time since she’s just been waiting for her body to catch up.

Jon’s not about to just let her go, and he’ll always stand by what Fay taught him all that time ago, that there is always a choice. The girl in front of him chose from the options presented to her, and she chose to fall.

But Dark Woman, for all her failings, believed in second chances.

That compassion is one of the few things she gave him that he’ll never relinquish.

_ If I can help one person, _ Jon used to say, and even in the time of the Empire, that hasn’t changed. The duty of the Jedi, to be compassionate without constraint, hasn’t changed— no matter how few of them remain in the galaxy. The reminder of his people’s fate provokes a twinge of grief, but— now’s hardly the time.

This girl has tracked him across planets and star systems, and Jon knows just as well as he knows his own lightsaber that she left backup behind long ago to try and hunt him down, like felling a Jedi Master would bring her any kind of relief, any kind of absolution.

They both know that when the Empire catches up to her, they won’t likely show her mercy.

Jon deactivates his lightsaber, clips it to his belt. Gestures to himself.

“Jedi Master Jon Antilles,” he says, and he can see by the not-quite-light in her eyes that she recognises it for what it is— a crossroads.

Once before in her life, a set of options were given to this girl, in what was probably the worst moment of her life. Circumstances don’t diminish her guilt, don’t make her any less responsible for what she’s done since, but— today Jon’s offering her another choice, another set of options.

Knowing what she does now, she has the chance to make a different choice.

The fact that she can see that, well.

It’s one of the reasons Jon knows he was safe enough to give her the chance in the first place.

They stay there, Jon standing, her kneeling, for what feels like minutes but could be hours. Around them, it’s as if the world comes to a standstill, with only the constant rain and the quiet sounds of animals in the underbrush to prove otherwise. Even the Force is silent, for once, save the maelstrom Jon can feel humming beneath the skin of the girl before him.

Eventually, her eyes slide from her hands to where her helmet is half-submerged in the water of the swamp, up to her lightsaber in Jon’s hand, and finally to his face, as if she can find answers under his hood or in the scars on his face. She’s still angry— it’s in her steel-taut muscles, her rigid posture, the clench of her jaw— but it feels somehow subdued, now. She’s made her decision, and the Force has settled to accommodate.

“My name is— was,” she says, stumbling over the word, “Trilla Suduri. But—“ she cuts herself off, seemingly choked up. “You can call me Merrill Taro.”

It’s clear the name means a lot to her.

Jon doesn’t ask.

“Follow me,” he says, and turns to trudge further into the swamp, hears the splash of her footsteps following him.

_ Merrill Taro. _ A second chance, he thinks wryly, and wonders what Dark Woman would think of him now.

Twilight has long since descended and the sky is a nearly impenetrable black when Merrill, ration pack half-eaten in her left hand, looks up and over at Jon.

“Mimban,” she says.

Jon looks up. Apparently she takes that as encouragement to keep going, because she takes a breath and continues, “we were on Mimban, when Order 66 went out.

“My master and I hid ourselves with the younglings, in a cave, but an Imperial patrol almost found us, and she said she’d draw them away. She did, but— they got her, brought her to Nur. They tortured her, and—“ she breaks off.

She doesn’t need to finish for him to understand. Jon’s heard this story many times to count. He considers stopping her, but—

No. He thinks of himself, thinks of Fay and Knol, and  _ knows _ .

Years ago, Knol showed him that kindness didn’t have to be soft. It could be rough around the edges, and abrupt, and sometimes even discourteous.

He thinks he might be able to show Merrill that. Thinks, maybe, that it’s what could save her, just as Fay saved him all those years ago.

She doesn’t need to finish for him to understand, but she needs to for her own sake.

“Master broke,” she says, “and the Imperials, they found us, and—“ her eyes well up with angry tears, close to spilling over, “—the younglings,” she says.

Jon closes his eyes at the blow. Expected, that the Empire would take the opportunity to wipe out potential Jedi before they had the chance to acquire skills that would make them a threat— but the fact that it is only makes the situation worse.

“They took me to the Fortress, then,” she says, “and—“ she cuts herself off, jaw clenching. Anger flickers in her eyes, and Jon doesn’t ask.

Just thinks of Knol, and Fay. Thinks about the kind thing to say, and the right thing, and what Merrill needs most.

“It wasn’t her fault,” he says quietly, and her head snaps up. Her eyes blaze with grief and rage, and the twist of her face is something not only angry but hurt, but he continues, “but it wasn’t yours either.”

For a second, it looks like she’s going to snap, like she’s about to scream or lunge or attack, her mouth opening as if about to retort. But instead, just as she’s on the precipice, something in her crumples, her posture slumping over and her head bowing.

“Yeah,” she whispers.

“You were both victims,” Jon says, “it doesn’t lessen either of your choices, or the consequences you suffered. Maybe if you had stopped her from running, yes, or if she had not broken under torture. But the time for that has passed.”

“I need to let go,” she says, softly, and from where he sits, Jon can see tear tracks on her face, can see her chest hitching with each silenced sob.

The Dark Side was a choice she made, but still.

He wonders when the last time was that she cried.

Jon isn’t one for physical contact, doesn’t tend to initiate it much, but it’s as if something in the Force compels him to when he stands up and walks over. Sits down beside her, and places a hand on her shoulder, hesitant.

He’s expecting many things. He’s not expecting her to lean into the touch before gravitating her own body towards his, carefully inching closer to him. Jon almost twitches, flinches, when she leans her forehead on his shoulder, clearly seeking reassurance, but—

_If I can help one person,_ he thinks, and his arm encircles her back, hand resting on her opposite shoulder. Through the points of contact, he can feel the stutter of her breath as she cries, and her tears warm the already soaked fabric of his cloak, but he can’t bring himself to mind.

Trilla Suduri was a Padawan, and Second Sister was an Inquisitor. Merrill Taro is neither, but—

_Second chances,_ Dark Woman’s voice echoes in his head.

Someday, she might be a Jedi.

**Author's Note:**

> the characterisation of jon antilles in this fic is inspired by the way he is written by @blackkat.


End file.
